


Just Another Day

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon, Short, fandom: sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock asks Mike to find him a flatmate: Even he's not quite sure why. Missing scene from 'A Study in Pink".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> Slight AU, in that Mike and Sherlock don't know each other very well in this verse.

Married, two children, a competent doctor and a terrible teacher. Fond of sugar and creamed coffee and trivial conversation. Mike Stamford is frighteningly dull. 

Sherlock switches back to his experiment, but those cultures still need another hour and damned if he’s going to spend it with this infuriating paragon of failed humanity.

“I need proper coffee,” Sherlock lies, not bothering to be convincing. He pulls on his coat and tries to brush past Mike, who simply beams.

“Perfect. I’d like a pastry of sorts myself. Breakfast and all that.” 

…......

Sherlock isn’t really sure, then or ever, what stops him from making a snide comment and ruining all attempts at a coffee date. He’ll rationalize it later as not wanting to alienate the staff at Bart’s, but that is, of course, utter nonsense. In reality, he’s just taken aback. Very few people have ever voluntarily decided to spend time in his company before. 

That doesn’t stop him from wanting to plug his ears against the incessant chatter that plagues him all the way to the cafe.

“2 coffees, one black, 2 packets of sugar, one creamed with the same. And do be quick about it,” Sherlock snaps out when they finally reach their destination. 

Mike opens his mouth and Sherlock cuts him off brutally as he throws a bit of money onto the counter. “No pastries. Your wife clearly made you breakfast and there is no need to hasten your inevitable heart attack.”

Michael shuts his mouth and it gives Sherlock a moment of satisfaction, right before the woman returns with their coffees and Michael takes his over to the nearest open table. He gestures to the seat next to him and Sherlock visibly cringes. He didn’t realize that this was also part of the mutual coffee-drinking ritual of civilized society.

“No, I am quite sure you’ve had enough of my company and to be frank-”

“You’re an odd sort of bloke, Sherlock,” Mike says easily. If he was offended, he doesn’t show it now. He points to the seat again, his smile a bit forced, but friendly for all of that.

That is the second time Michael Stamford has managed to surprise the detective today. Sherlock sits.

“Molly says you’re a detective of sorts: sounds like an interesting job. What are you doing today then?”

“Testing semen samples, flagellating corpses and suffering through inane conversations, apparently.” Sherlock smiles toothily.

That goes right over Mike’s head. “God, must be terrible. What does the missus think of that?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “There is no missus.” Inwardly, he shudders at the thought. Marriage makes one soft-headed and likely to coo over infants, to best of his knowledge. The only good type of marriage, in Sherlock’s book, is the type that leads to a nice, bloody murder.

“Oh, there must be someone Sherlock! Good-looking bloke like you.” Mike’s laugh is as obnoxious as the rest of him, Sherlock notes. He shifts uncomfortably. He really doesn’t like having this conversation, but he can’t pinpoint precisely why. 

“I am told that good looks are not the sole foundation for a stable relationship.” 

“Well, there is that.” Mike eyes him appraisingly. “You know, Molly always seems like a good sort-”

“Not my type.” Though frankly, having a new makeup trick every-time he walked in was no end of useful. The way cosmetics could transform a face was remarkable, he really ought to get a better study going on that. Sherlock mentally resolves to ask Molly for the loan of her cosmetics box. With any luck, such a request will kill two birds with one stone.

“Ah.” Mike seems a trifle taken aback. “So you’re into blokes then?”

“No.” He isn’t, is he? No. There had been that mutual understanding between him and Victor, of course, back in university. Sherlock had rather enjoyed that. Sometimes, rarely, he still reaches over in the mornings, hands futilely patting for a warm body that has not been there for years. He’s embarrassed when he wakes, flushed with a tinge of melancholy that won’t shift for hours and a hot heaviness between his thighs. 

No. Such things are not only unnecessary, they are a distraction. Getting needy, he chides himself. Possibly even sentimental. His lips curl automatically in disgust. 

Mike decides it’s time to change topics. He is a doctor, after all. He’s seen everything and not much of it does bother him, but there is a line known as too much information. And with Sherlock, it seems everything is rather too much information.

“So. Going to Dr. Barry’s party tomorrow then, yeah? Expect I’ll see you there.”

What is wrong with this fool? For a moment Sherlock suspects Mike is having a joke at his expense. But no, his small blue eyes are as guileless and insipid as ever.

“Why on earth would I do that?” He reaches for his coat. Enough is enough.

“Ah, I understand, you’re a young bloke. Going out for clubbing or some rot, yeah?” 

Mike actually winks at him as he blunders to his feet.

“God no. That’s sounds perfectly miserable.”

“Well, you got to have some fun, Sherlock. Surely you don’t spend your weekends cooped up by yourself, doing experiments do you?” Mike chuckles at his own joke as he throws away his coffee. 

Sherlock is silent. 

“I’m moving,” is all he says, when he trusts his voice again. 

“Oh?” Mike asks.

“And-” And really, what did he want to tell Mike that for? There is no good reason, so Sherlock throws out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I suppose I could use a flat-mate.” The statement surprises Sherlock more than anyone else.

It’s silly. Needy. Mycroft would pay and there is no reason to believe a flatmate would like him any better than the rest of the world. For some reason, he’s still loath to retract the statement. 

“Yeah, I’ll ask around-”

Sherlock's already regretting his impulsiveness. "No, don't bother. I suppose I'd be a difficult man to find a flatmate for." 

Mike barks out a quick laugh. "Oh I'm sure there's someone who'd have y--" 

But Sherlock is already gone, his long legs carrying him far faster than should be humanely possible. He has his cultures to see to, after all.

........

/ I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other./

/Oh, you--you told him about me?/

/Not a word/

/Then who said anything about flatmates?/

/I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap./


End file.
